


Internal Dialogue

by alutiv



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grieving!John, John Can't Escape Sherlock's Commentary, John is Feeling Better, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:38:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alutiv/pseuds/alutiv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the months since That Day, John has had cause to seriously examine the phrase “quiet as the grave” and reject it as utter nonsense. Although, he supposes, to be fair, Sherlock’s grave is very quiet. The doctor’s skull, on the other hand, seems to have gained a permanent resident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Internal Dialogue

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to the inimitable gowerstreet for beta reading.

Really, John should have known that a little thing like being dead would never keep Sherlock Holmes quiet. In the months since That Day, John has had cause to seriously examine the phrase “quiet as the grave” and reject it as utter nonsense. Although, he supposes, to be fair, Sherlock’s grave is very quiet. The doctor’s skull, on the other hand, seems to have gained a permanent resident.

It starts out in those infrequent moments when the life they shared at 221B is the furthest thing from his mind, and an echoed phrase startles him into a grimace that gradually turns into a genuine smile. That’s Sherlock all over, isn’t it? Probably just fine with the idea of being dead, but totally unable to cope with being forgotten.

The deductions, or rather, the attempts at deductions, are annoying, though. Half-asleep on the tube on his way to another temporary job, John gets treated to a monologue on the thirty-something woman in the opposite seat ( ** _Thirty-five or thereabouts, hair cut short to make it easier to care for, not because she likes it or because long hair would get in the way; no make-up on her face, but three tubes of lip gloss are poking out of the side pocket of her purse; no wedding ring…_** ) that trails off, disappointingly limited by John’s abilities. He is not so far gone as to think the voice in his head is anything other than an attempt to fill the silence, and he was never the deductive genius in this partnership.

**_You see, but you don’t observe._ **

John rubs a hand over his face, hiding his reflexive eye roll from his fellow passengers.

**_As if any of them would notice, John._ **

Ignoring the voice only makes it more insistent. Against his better judgment, John finally engages.

_What do you want, Sherlock?_

**_Bored!_** The plain petulance makes him grin, and he bites his lip before he starts to laugh out loud.

_You’re dead. What did you expect?_

No response to that.

_You know, I’m not sure if I should be insulted that you are in my head, part of my own imagination, and you’re still complaining to me that you’re bored. God, I can just see you. It’s like you’ve got all of the flat inside my head. You’re flopped on the couch right now. Ah, well, as long as you don’t go shooting any holes in there, I guess._

That gets a huff of air, and he smirks.

 _You brought this on yourself, you know,_ John tells the figment of his imagination. He can feel the glare just as plain as if Sherlock were in front of him, and he has to clear his throat to suppress a fit of giggles. This is actually almost fun. More fun than he can remember having in a good long time.

 _I just realised,_ he muses, _that Ella was right._

**_That seems unlikely._ **

John snorts, then gives an apologetic half-smile to the woman opposite, now looking at him with something like alarm. _She said there were things I didn’t say, and I should say them now. I didn’t want to say them to her, but I could you tell you all the things I never said._

 ** _As if I wouldn’t know already._** The raised eyebrow is plain in the tone.

 _Fair enough._ John starts to shrug, then forces his shoulders to relax. _Even if you wouldn’t have before-_

**_I would have._ **

_Jesus, even in my head, you interrupt me. Which is where I was going with this, anyway. You'd know now. You're just me, after all._

**_Flattering yourself._ **

_Oh, shut it. You're dead._

**_Dull._ **

John turns his face to the window and swallows his laughter. _You also said breathing was boring, so you didn’t leave yourself a lot of room there, did you?_

Silence.

_Great. Even now, I have to deal with you pouting._

**_I don't pout._ **

_I'm not even going to dignify that with a response._

**_You can't very well give yourself the silent treatment._ **

_Too right, with you in my head. Comfortable, are you?_

**_Very._ **

_Nutter._

**_I’m not the one conversing with a memory._ **

John considers this. _Point. But…._

The silence stretches, finally broken by a hint of a whisper. **_But… what?_**

John closes his eyes, slumps against the window. Maybe the woman staring at him will think he has fallen asleep. Maybe she thinks he is drunk, and he wonders if he should be concerned that he might prefer that total strangers think he has been drinking his breakfast than suspect him of having a heart-to-heart with the voice in his head.

**_John?_ **

_You already know. You’re the genius._

**_Tell me anyway._ **

John shakes his head, the tiniest movement possible. His mirth has evaporated, and he thinks he needs to keep his eyes closed, because if he opens them, the concern radiating from the woman with the lip gloss sticking out of her handbag will utterly undo him.

**_John. Tell me. Please._ **

_Repeating yourself, and saying please? This is definitely more me than you._

**_Avoidance. Won’t work on me._ **

_Even less now than before, I reckon._

**_Quite._ **

_I miss you, all right? Is that what you want to hear?_

**_Is that what you want to tell me?_ **

_I don’t know. Is it? You’re you_ and _you’re me and you ought to be able to deduce it already. There shouldn’t be any surprises here._

**_John. My friend. Don’t you know by now that the one thing you could always do, the one thing almost only you could do, was surprise me?_ **

Forehead pressed to the cool glass, John smiles at that. He swipes his hand across his nose, stuffy now as if he had actually started sobbing.

**_You really ought to carry a handkerchief._ **

That is too much. John finally laughs out loud, then leans forward and braces his elbows on his thighs, face covered by his hands.

_I bet you always had one tucked in one of those pockets, you posh twat._

**_Name calling? You’re feeling better, then._ **

John pauses, assessing himself. _I am, actually._ He feels better than he has in a long while, if he is honest with himself, and with Sherlock in his head, there is no other way he can be. His stop is coming up next. He stands and stretches, opening his eyes slowly. The lip gloss woman is gone. Between John and the door, though, there is a woman in scrubs printed with teddy bears getting ready to exit.

Her long blonde hair is drawn up in a ponytail. She gives John an easy smile, and he follows her through the sliding door and onto the escalator.

The familiar rumble in his head says, **_Nurse. Paediatrics._**

 _Yes, I can gather that much myself, thanks._

**_Just trying to help._ **

The blonde steps lightly off the escalator. 

_Sherlock?_

**_Yes?_ **

_Shut it._

John quickens his pace, then falls into step next to the blonde as they approach the hospital doorway. He clears his throat. She glances at him. He knows his smile looks more nervous than he would like, but nothing to be done about it. “John Watson,” he says, offering his hand. “First day.”

Her hand is cool and dry in his. “Jennifer Arthurs.”

He pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket and shows her the name and office number scrawled across it. “Could you, ah, point me in the right direction?”

“Of course,” she says, her smile bright. She takes the paper from his hand and peers at it. “You know, it might be easier if I just show you. I’ve got a few minutes.”

“That’d be great,” he says. He follows her through the halls. When they reach their destination, she hands the paper back to him.

“Thanks very much,” he says.

She shrugs lightly. “I usually get lunch in the cafeteria at one, if you’d like some company.”

“I would love some company,” he says.

“All right, then. See you.” She sets off down the hall. John watches her go. He can hardly wait for lunch.


End file.
